


Real Talk with Real Folks

by LadyDorian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, I don't know if they have banana nut muffins in space and frankly I don't care, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren is a man on a mission, Light BDSM, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Public Humiliation, Rimming, Sexual Fantasy, based on art, brief mentions of Matt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When "Matt" overhears some talk around base regarding his two superior officers being more than just constantly bickering co-commanders, the real Kylo Ren sets out to investigate the allegations.</p><p>A crack!fic in which Kylo bites off more than he can chew when he decides to eavesdrop on some "real talk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Talk with Real Folks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mintywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintywrites/gifts), [ithinkwehitametaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/gifts).



> Based on [this prompt](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/147360783345/i-cant-believe-im-sending-a-kylux-ask-but-i-saw) and [this comic.](http://johanirae.tumblr.com/post/138977095506/the-force-awakens-matt-the-radar-tech-learns)
> 
> For Minty (who inspired me), and for Jana (who puts up with all of my shit).

He didn’t believe a word of it, of course. Who in their right mind would be so foolish to even _think_ of spreading such baseless rumors about the esteemed Master of the Knights of Ren and...and...that horrid ginger pissbaby, with his ugly hat and stupid coat hanging about his shoulders, sleeves flopping around like flaccid rancor dicks? That old man was a letch, a _liar_. He clearly didn’t have his wits about him. In all likelihood, he’d probably inhaled far too many burnt circuit board fumes, a byproduct of decades spent as a lowly technician. What else could explain why he’d thought it was a good idea to ramble on to “Matt”—a man he knew _nothing_ of in the least sense of the term—about the private dealings of Kylo Ren and—

He couldn’t think of the General’s name without his fingers twitching, yearning to settle around the hilt of his lightsaber or, more preferably, the pale skin at the base of the man’s neck. But the latter option was off the table, which was why between Starkiller Base and the Finalizer, they’d had to replace a total of eight command consoles just this month. He was certain that old fool must have worked on at least one of the repairs; if he knew of Lord Ren’s wrath, why would he dare tempt it? Or did he truly believe his own perverse fantasy in which everyone took it upon themselves to concoct falsehoods about their superiors without fear of retribution?

Oh, he would get his comeuppance. Ren was going to probe every last mind on base, and when the old man’s allegations fell flat, he would rip the lies clean out of him.

He smirked to himself as he slunk through the halls, delighting in the thought of slicing off the man’s tongue. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when “Matt” revealed the cold, hard truth, just moments before silencing him with a sweep of his blade. A fitting punishment for such a shameless gossip.

In a day or two, he’d have all the evidence he’d need.

.....

Three hours.

His temples throbbed with each word thought or spoken, each transmission plucking at his nerves like fingers at the strings of an over-tightened instrument.

Three hours.

Ren laughed to himself, a hollow echo that settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. He figured that by the time he concluded his investigation, he’d have collected enough tongues to stitch together not one but _two_ new robes, with some left over for a matching pair of gloves.

Scratch that—a _dozen_ pairs.

What the pfassk was Hux running here? It was like being privy to all the depravity of a cantina but without the luxury of drinks and dancing Twi’lek girls to numb his thoughts. And stars, was he in desperate need of some numbing. Well...at least some parts of him were. That became glaringly obvious with each downward glance as he weaved his way through Starkiller’s corridors.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what had been keeping his rage in check through the onslaught of salacious banter. There was little doubt that he was pissed— _oh, was he pissed_ —but his anger was diluted by something beyond his comprehension. Perhaps he was still reeling from the shock of discovering that the old man had been right, that _he_ —the great Lord Ren of all people—had been wrong about something, and that it had been happening right under his nose this entire time. Or maybe it was just the preposterousness of all he’d heard thus far, each scenario so unabashedly absurd, he felt like nothing more than a detached observer passing judgment on what had to be the galaxy’s most poorly-written opera. Three acts in and no climax on the horizon:

A masculine voice, tenor: _"_ — _seemed to be walking a little funny this morning. Do you think Lord Ren gave it to him good and hard last night?"_

That was a frivolous deduction. The General always walked as if he had something lodged firmly up his ass.

Other male, laughing, fifteen meters away: _"_ — _said there's a jar of salve missing from medbay. Are we sure those two haven't been fooling around in there recently?"  
_ Feminine voice, thought not spoken: _"Wouldn't surprise me."_

Another ridiculous theory. There were far better lubricants for that purpose. Besides, if they knew anything of Hux’s character, they’d realize he’d never allow such valuable supplies to be wasted on “entertainment.”

Female technician, sassy: _"_ — _you see how the General was ogling him? Like he wanted to gobble up that cute little ass like a muffin."_

Flattering, but the muffins in the officer's lounge were rather delicious. There was no way Hux would prefer his—or anyone's—ass to a freshly baked banana-nut.

Male officer, corner table in cafeteria: _"_ — _saw him strangle a prisoner to death the other day, but I hear he likes it the other way around. He can't get off unless the General's hands are on his throat.”  
_ Male stormtrooper, between bites of food: _"I hear they take turns. That it's their idea of foreplay."_

A bit of a leap with that assumption, although…

Ren clenched his fists and staggered on, forcing all thought of Hux’s hands from his mind. And his throat. And his—

 _“—just a good squeeze to get him going_ —”

Really, how was this conversation even remotely relevant to their mission? He had half a mind to inform Hux, wipe that smug look off his face. If only he could picture Hux’s face without feeling his own heat up.

A familiar voice, thickly accented: _"I hear he's made to wear the mask at all times, even while they fuck. The General only allows him to remove it when he orders Lord Ren to lick his own spunk from his boots."_

 _Unbelievable!_ He jabbed his fist into his side three times in sharp succession. Even you, Phasma? His—his _boots?_ _Why_ —Wasn’t there a single soul on base who still cared about crushing the Resistance? Or was every last officer so preoccupied with who was sticking their dick in whom that the destruction of the New Republic became relegated to a simple afterthought?

The pain at his hip barely even touched the searing headache brewing behind his eyes, but he couldn’t stop now. It had become a test of endurance, a longing to see how much anguish he could take, if he could use any of it to further his training, to focus the beam of his anger. This was no longer simply about revenge.

This was a _thirst._

Ren was fighting through yet another stream of atrocities—something unmentionable regarding a tauntaun hide and a bottle of Ewok pheromones—when he captured a thought so incredibly ordinary, it was like a breath of fresh air and a slap in the face all at once:

_“—three reassignments, seventeen performance reviews, a briefing on construction of the superweapon, and a thorough cleaning of Millicent’s litterbox with just enough time left for a glass of brandy before supper.”_

_There!_ That level of blandness could only come from the methodical mind of one man.

Relief crested over him. _Hux, you beautiful bastard. Thank_ —

_“—moaning, Oh, General, you bastard!”_

Ren groaned. He’d had it up to his helmet with this First Order Fuckstravaganza. He shushed all other feedback and narrowed his focus entirely on Hux, who—to the best of his knowledge—appeared to be the only sane person left on base.

At present, the General was little more than a vapid mass of agenda items and statistics, but he was a fast-moving one, closing in on his location at breakneck speed. Ren’s mind suddenly spiralled into a vortex of ‘What-ifs.’ What if he couldn't calm himself? What if Hux could read his discomfort even through his mask? Should he risk their paths crossing? Should he duck down a different corridor?

More importantly, would he ever be able to look at Hux the same as before? Could he sit through meetings and speeches without thinking of how the General liked his nipples teased? Or if he truly did enjoy being tied up and whipped? Or—what he'd discovered to be the base’s most hotly-contested topic—whether his cock curved more to the right or the left?

He was still arguing with himself when Hux’s figure jutted into frame: Hat sitting perfectly atop his head, greatcoat swaying gracefully, boots polished to a pristine black.

 _Kriff._ Ren swallowed around the lump in his throat. Why in Snoke’s name did he have to look at those boots?

He’d underestimated his resolve; he needed to get back to the ship, back to his quarters. Needed to meditate, to break something, to jerk off, to choke the thought of Hux from his cock, _anything._ He'd been rock hard since picking up that bit about Hux lapping lukewarm caf out of his asshole, and could only hope that his erection wasn’t prominent enough to be seen through his robes.

But his worry was for naught. Hux wasn’t even looking at him. He was approaching him head-on, two ships bound for collision, but his eyes cut right past. Hux had his focus; he always did. Meanwhile, Ren was trying and failing at composing himself, gripped by his hatred and jealousy.

And, on this occasion, steered by the makeshift divining rod in his pants.

At the last possible second, Ren managed to pull his wits together, stepping quickly to the side. It wasn’t enough to keep their shoulders from knocking against one another, but it did earn him a lovely growl as Hux scrambled to readjust his greatcoat. He stopped long enough to throw him a sideways glance and an irritated “ _Ren_ …” before carrying on without another word.

Ren watched him walk away, pleased by how little effort it took to rile Hux up. He’d almost forgotten how soothing it felt to feed off of his hatred, and after the mess that had been today, he figured he could allow himself this indulgence. He grinned and started back down the hall, towing the thread of Hux’s thoughts behind him.

They followed almost too easily; Hux had always kept himself guarded around Ren, but for some reason he was on full broadcast that day. And Ren was far too delighted to question it.

_“—rrogant little brat. Probably off to destroy more of my equipment. Or does today's agenda call for terrorizing my officers instead? I’ve the right mind to teach you some manners, you son-of-a-Bith—”_

Ren couldn’t help but chuckle at the sentiment. Loathe him or _loathe_ him, there was something to be said for the General’s predictability. Always so—

_“—slash those pretty thighs of yours with my riding crop—”_

He froze. No...he’d heard wrong. It wasn’t—Hux would never—

_“—clean you up with my tongue afterward—”_

Except he _would._ Ren slung his gaze over his shoulder, just quick enough to catch the tail of Hux’s greatcoat swishing around a corner and out of sight. He was a good twenty, twenty-five meters away, and still his thoughts came at top volume, relentless even as Ren felt his knees begin to buckle, and had to brace a hand against the wall to steady himself.

_“—hard and dripping. Oh, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe I’ll spread you open and fuck you in front of the troops during one of my speeches. Show them all how disciplined you’ve become—”_

The scene unfurled along the fringes of his vision, bleeding from Hux’s mind into his. An impossible expanse of white lay before him, thousands of helmets gleaming in the sun, waiting, _watching._ He could feel the bitter chill of the parade ground seeping into his palms, his knees. A hint of machine oil and perspiration in the air, a warmth pressing against his back, a tightness. His cock twitched; his ass clenched against the perceived intrusion. Hux continued:

_“—voice would hardly waver. I’d deliver the entire speech buried to the hilt inside you—”_

It wouldn’t. _Oh_ , it wouldn’t. The echoes rang in his ears, each syllable as crisp and vivid as his faux-surroundings, details so clean Ren was certain Hux had called upon this fantasy on more than one occasion. It went far too deep for Ren to have conjured it on his own. He scratched his fingertips against the wall, seeking some sort of tether—anything to keep him grounded as reality flickered in and out:

_“—take you back to my quarters and shove you down onto your knees, fill that smart mouth with my cock, make you choke on it—”_

Ren blinked, and suddenly he was seeing himself through Hux’s eyes: bare skin glimmering with sweat, hands twisted in dark fabric as he was guided in sloppy fellatio. Hux was stroking the mole on his right cheek with a gloved thumb, a small offering of tenderness before his grip tightened and he plunged deep into Ren’s mouth.

Ren jerked his hand to his face, knuckles clunking against the front of his mask in a stupid attempt to brush aside the tuft of ginger pubes he’d felt tickling the tip of his nose. His fingers caught the edge of his belt on the way back down, and instead of letting his hand fall limp at his side, he discreetly slipped it beneath the folds of his robe. Two stormtroopers that had rounded the corner at the very end of the hall quickly turned on their heels. Whether they had seen the truth or simply assumed he was reaching for his saber mid-tantrum, Ren didn’t care; he was too busy grinding his palm against the bulge in his pants and gulping down Hux’s fantasies like the very air he needed to breathe:

_“—have you undress me with your teeth—”_

Yeah, he could do that. Might even pop a few stitches on purpose, just to see how Hux would react.

_“—make you lick my boots—”_

The boots again? Sure, why not? Ren had never considered how badly he’d want to see his come splattered across perfectly polished leather.

_“—rut my arse over you until you beg for it—”_

Was he above begging? Stars, he didn’t know anymore. Anything seemed possible when he could practically feel Hux’s ass grinding against him, tempting him with each roll, each word slamming down hard.

_“—bite your throat until you beg me to stop—”_

Stars, did he want it. _All_ of it. He couldn't tell anymore if the images in his head were of Hux’s creation or his own. But he rolled with it, beating his prick through the fabric of his pants until it burned from the friction.

_“—sit on your face as if it were my throne—”_

Something deep inside him thrummed and snapped, and Ren came to a chorus of crashing objects and muffled footsteps racing off in the distance. He opened his eyes to see the lights flickering in time with each twitch, escorting him through the aftershocks.

And then there was only silence, and the echoes of his own shameful thoughts.

The air inside his helmet felt like it had turned to steam at some point. He sucked in a deep breath and attempted to tamp down the rubbish pit of images Hux had dumped in his mind, reminding himself that the heat pulsing through his cheeks was not the warmth of Hux’s thighs pressed against his skin, and the bead of sweat trickling down his face was not really fluid that had leaked from the tip of Hux’s cock or out of his—

Ren swallowed. He licked his parched lips, trying not to imagine his tongue running over the soft, ridged pucker between Hux's cheeks.

_Oh hells._

This wasn't his fault. It was that old man’s fault. It was the crew’s fault. It was _Hux’s_ fault for getting him so wrapped up in his filthy kriffing fantasies.

_Hux._

That’s right, it was all Hux’s fault for believing he could ever hold power over Ren. Ren, who hated him with every fiber of his being, Ren who would never kneel before him—

— _and wrap his lips around his cock_ —  
— _or lick the come from his boots_ —  
— _or spread his legs and offer himself to be fucked into blissful submission_ —

It was embarrassing to even entertain such a ludicrous thought.

And yet, by Vader, he couldn’t deny how good it had felt.

Against his better judgment (and ignoring the sticky mess cooling in his pants), Ren reached for Hux once more.

There was fresh air, wind, a sudden coldness. Hux was standing just outside the base, his heart pounding away in his chest, skin prickling with heat despite the the bitter chill. He was smoking; Ren could taste the tar on his tongue.

Was this what Hux would taste like, if he were to press close and slide his tongue past those plush lips? He licked at his own again, thinking he must have noticed how plump and enticing Hux’s were before then. Just like he’d surely noticed how nicely that hat suited him, and how the darkness of his uniform accentuated the hazy blue in his eyes, and how his coat made his shoulders seem broader, stronger.

And maybe he really wouldn't mind ripping it off, sinking his teeth into pale, lightly freckled flesh. Maybe he’d always wanted to, in some way or another.

He was losing focus again, getting carried away by his own imaginings. With stiff fingers, he reached out and tightened his grip on Hux, eager for more. More of that voice inside his head, both infuriating and titillating:

_—six hundred troops to the Outer Rim, four scheduled debriefings, nine lost during the capture of—_

Wait, _what?_ Ren snapped his head around, wide eyes seeking Hux through layers of durasteel. What happened to the filth, the vulgarity, the—the downright _pornographic_ things Hux had spoke of doing to him? Why was he suddenly back to meeting minutes and battle statistics? Had he been screwing with Ren from the start? Had this all been some kind of game? Ren grit his teeth and pushed deeper.

No, it couldn’t be a trick. Hux was genuinely... _anxious? angry? aroused?_

_Ashamed._

Good. He liked shame. He could work with shame. It was one of the few things they had in common, apparently.

_“—eight squadrons to—oh kriffing hells, this is embarrassing. I need to stop. I’m better than this—”_

Ren’s eyebrows quirked upwards, ears burning.

_“—to get so worked up over a few rumors—”_

Hux knew?! Weeks, maybe even months of gossip, and he _knew?_ And he’d just decided to keep this information from him? Rage surged through his limbs, fresh and ready.

His revenge was back on, though the plan had shifted slightly. The old man was just a drop in the bucket now. Hells, he’d forfeit the punishments of the entire crew for just one shot at Hux. He wouldn't _kill_ him, of course, only make him suffer: Fill his head with nightmares, insult him in front of the crew during morning meetings, wound his pride, throw his cat out of an airlock, singe his coat with his saber, tie him up and _—_

_Tie. Him. Up..._

Ren had started making his way down the hall again, but he paused at that last thought, a grin creeping across his face. His cock stirred in the damp confines of his pants.

Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Who said they both couldn't enjoy a little steamy vengeance?

Ren chuckled to himself as he headed for his quarters, cycling through the wealth of imagery Hux had bequeathed to him, plotting his next course of action. Just imagine how much more they could teach each other, with whips and chains, teeth and nails, a lesson charted in bruises and restraints.

By the time he was finished with him, he'd get Hux to open his mind freely. And after that his mouth, and finally his legs.

What reason did he have to feel ashamed? He wasn't some spotless Jedi; he was Kylo- _pfassking_ -Ren.

And he was looking forward to having some real talk with the General. Some real good _talk._


End file.
